Across the Universe
by Liete
Summary: -UK/US/UK- A collection of short ficlets of varying genres and universes.
1. White Flag

**"White Flag"  
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**By: Liete**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters portrayed.**

**A/N: Phew, sorry for deleting the previous ficlet collection, but I'll try it again! This will be the first of a set of short ficlets that I will write and post on Tumblr first, then will post here as well. :) **

**This particular story was inspired by the song "White Flag" by Dido, and therefore has one-sided UK/US that was previously a mutual UK/US relationship.  
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><p>It was foolish to think that he'd never cross paths with Alfred again. Given the number of years they spent together, they accumulated many mutual friends. Seeing each other again was inevitable.<p>

Regardless, Arthur shrinks into the shadows when he sees Alfred enter the building with a lovely woman on his arm. It was his own fault for accepting one of Francis's invitations, gala event or no. He finishes his glass of wine in one gulp and heads for the bar to ask for something much stronger. He's going to need it.

It had ended badly, with nasty words and cold looks.

"I don't love you anymore, Arthur," Alfred had said with an uncharacteristically harsh look on his face. "I haven't for awhile."

The words had stung, cut so deep that it had physically hurt, but they were no excuse for how Arthur had responded.

"Fair enough, because I haven't loved you for a very long time."

That had been a lie, the worst Arthur has ever told. Even then, Arthur had still been deeply in love with Alfred. Even now, he still is.

He hasn't forgotten—and doesn't want to—the taste of Alfred's skin, the feeling of their bodies sliding against each other, the way their hands and lips always found each other, and the way Alfred would gasp "god, Arthur, sweetheart, _love you_" even as Arthur pushed him onto the bed and reduced him to little more than scratching fingers and cries of his name. He won't forget coffee in his kitchen, hot dogs and baseball along with fish and chips and rugby, and holding each other for no other reason than to feel the other's heartbeat.

Even if he still retains his feelings, the fact remains that Alfred's love had faded and they pushed each other away that day. There is no going back.

As Arthur tries to slip off unnoticed, Alfred, now separated from his pretty friend, happens to step near him as he greets friends, and Arthur's heart skips a beat as their eyes meet. Alfred's brilliant smile fades into a hesitant, uncomfortable look as they watch each other in tense silence.

Arthur wants to apologize, and even worse he wants to hold Alfred, _feel_ him again.

But everything is in the past, and there's no use dwelling on what was, even if it will always linger.

Arthur sets his empty wine glass to the side and straightens himself up, extending his right hand with a curt nod.

"Hello, Alfred," he says, betraying nothing.

Alfred stays still for a moment, but then his expression softens into a friendly smile. He takes Arthur's hand in his and shakes it firmly.

"Good to see you, Arthur."


	2. Can't We Be Sweethearts

**"Can't We Be Sweethearts"  
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**A/N: For this one, it's inspired by "Can't We Be Sweethearts" by the Cleftones, and it wound up being a silly one-sided US/UK fic, heh.  
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><p>Monday evening alternating with Thursday morning every other week. It was Alfred's laundry schedule that he adhered to with the strictest of punctuality. Calls home to his mother ended with her praising him for being able to manage his laundry on his own.<p>

In truth, Alfred couldn't have cared less about getting his laundry done. He'd wear the same pair of jeans day after day until someone called him on either the smell or the dirt if he could. The reason he wound up with a laundry schedule started off innocently enough. He'd been guilted into finding a laundromat by his mother, who threatened not to do his laundry for him if he brought it home on the weekends. He'd gone, if only to get her off his back and to prove that having him do his laundry on his own was a terrible idea.

The fact that he'd wound up finding a reason to go had been a complete accident.

The additional fact that he had yet to _talk_ to that reason was merely an unfortunate setback.

Alfred watched out of the corner of his eye as the man with the enormous eyebrows sat in a chair reading a book while he waited for his clothes to be washed. Alfred measured out soap to wash clothes that weren't really dirty, but he'd take any excuse to show up at that laundromat. He set the cycle, then took a seat in one of the plastic chairs several seats down from where the man sat. Alfred twiddled his thumbs, occasionally casting glances out of the corner of his eye.

The man was probably only a few years older than him—a working man of some kind. When Alfred had happened to hear his voice, he'd garnered that the man was English. He had enormous eyebrows and read books with questionable titles and covers, but Alfred had been instantly attracted to him anyway.

Normally Alfred had no problems starting conversations with complete strangers, but this man was different. Alfred was always at a loss for words whenever he saw him. One day, he assured himself, though, he would introduce himself and everything would fall into place.

"Arthur," the man said, making Alfred jump. He gaped as the man closed his book and turned to look at him.

"...eh?"

"My name is Arthur. You and I seem to come in here at the same time, don't we?" Arthur smiled then, and it was such a wonderful sight to see that Alfred felt light-headed.

That was his cue to introduce himself and begin a riveting conversation about how he was studying science and planned to use that knowledge to save the world.

But his head felt so light that he was dizzy and any finesse went out the door.

"I love you. Be my sweetheart."

For what felt like several excruciating hours, the only noise was the whirring of the machines around them and the hushed voices of other patrons while Alfred and Arthur sat staring at each other.

Arthur finally moved his mouth, silently at first, but then he began to sputter as his face started turning an interesting, but very attractive to Alfred's dismay, shade of red.

"I beg your pardon?"

Alfred wished for the floor to open up and swallow him at that moment, but instead he was left blushing up to his ears and feeling like an idiot for running at the mouth like that.

"I mean Alfred. My name is Alfred," he said. While Arthur gaped at him again, Alfred cleared his throat and stood up abruptly, bolting for the door. He could come back for his laundry later.

On the plus side, he'd managed to get Arthur's name, and the next Thursday would be a new opportunity.


	3. Not As Planned

**Not As Planned  
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**A/N: Annnnnd here's some mutual UK/US at last. :)  
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><p>America let out a pained groan as his head smashed into what must have been the floor lamp just inside his bedroom. England's hand went around to rub at the back of his head, but his aggressive kissing continued.<p>

Although he fumbled for the light switch on the wall, America failed to turn on the light before England pushed him further into the darkness of his room. The kiss was finally broken, but only long enough for England to push America's t-shirt up with America pulling it the rest of the way off, and America managed to remove England's buttons without destroying any or ripping England's shirt—the lecture he'd received the time before had been more than enough for him to exercise caution when handling England's shirts. Then the hungry, insistent kisses continued.

The lack of light in the room finally became a problem when the back of America's legs hit the edge of his bed, and while normally he might be pushed onto the bed while England climbed on top of him, he instead windmilled his arms, grabbing onto England as he fell to the side. England let out a startled squawk as they hit the floor with a loud crash.

At first America stared up into the darkness, bewildered, but then he had to laugh—at first just a chuckle that grew into loud laughter that made his body shake. On top of him, America could feel England smiling against his collarbone, and then England was chuckling quietly, as well.

"Guess that didn't work out so well," America said, still chuckling and lifting a hand to wipe at his eyes.

"No, I suppose it didn't," England replied, and America smiled when England lifted his head.

Their kiss then was much more languid, lacking the desperation from only minutes before. Although America regretted that the mood had been successfully killed, he was pleased to find that England wasn't angry because of it. When England started to stand up, America clutched at his arm and tugged him back gently.

"While we're down here, let's just stay here for awhile."

"On the floor? Idiot," England said, but with obvious affection in his voice. He retrieved one of the pillows on the bed, prompting America to lift his head so he could place it underneath. England plucked his glasses off his face as he lowered his head, and America grinned at him.

"Look how thoughtful you can be when you want to, England," America said, teasing, and he wrapped his arms and legs around England as he kissed his cheek.

"Yes, well." England turned, and America kissed him proper before he lowered his head to rest on America's chest. "As long as you insist on doing foolish things like cuddle on the floor, we should at least attempt to make it somewhat comfortable."

"So you admit that we're cuddling, huh?" America asked, his grin so wide his face hurt.

"...I did no such thing," England replied, but America swore he felt England's cheek heat up against his chest.


	4. Can't Take My Eyes Off You

**"Can't Take My Eyes Off You"  
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**A/N: This one is related to my Delinquent AU, but it should hopefully still be enjoyable even if you aren't familiar with that verse. "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" by the Four Seasons was the inspiration here. :)  
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><p>"You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off you."<p>

Arthur freezes just before he takes a bite of his hot dog to stare at Alfred, whose eyes and smile are bright with mischief. Alfred is singing along to the music blasting from the restaurant they're sitting outside of—and far too loudly at that. Arthur scowls and shakes his head. Alfred merely chuckles and continues anyway.

"Pardon the way that I stare, there's nothing else to compare. The sight of you leaves me weak, there are no words left to speak."

Despite himself, Arthur starts to blush, though it's more from the affectionate look on Alfred's face that accompanies his singing than anything else. He takes a violent bite of his hot dog and looks away. "So don't then."

"But if you feel like I feel, please let me know that it's real. You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off you," Alfred sings, carrying on without regard.

Arthur looks up again when Alfred suddenly stands, dancing badly to the instrumental portion of the song. Arthur scoffs, but it turns into a startled choke when Alfred suddenly pulls him to his feet and starts to spin him around, laughing all the while.

"Alfred, someone might see—"

"Then let them!" Alfred says with a laugh. Although Arthur wants to call him crazy, he notices that most people aren't paying them any mind, and if anything amusement is the predominant reaction to the two of them. Any disdain is accompanied by shakes of the head and hurried steps away from them.

Even so, Arthur keeps his eyes fixed on Alfred instead of anywhere else, lest he see something he doesn't want to. The look on Alfred's face proves the words he's singing true, and it only deepens Arthur's blush to know that Alfred wants to keep looking at him. Alfred continues to spin him around in a poor attempt at dancing, and Arthur doesn't even bother to try to keep up with Alfred's movements, believing it best—and safest—to just let Alfred lead.

"I love you, baby, and if it's quite all right I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night. I love you, baby. Trust in me when I say—oh, pretty baby, don't bring me down, I pray, oh, pretty baby, now that I found you—stay."

He's pulled close against Alfred at that last word, and his eyes widen when Alfred squeezes him tight, his face obscured over Arthur's shoulder.

"And let me love you, baby, let me love you."

Arthur lifts a trembling hand to clutch at Alfred's shirt, and he finally pushes Alfred back to scowl at him despite how red he knows his face is.

"You...you're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously awesome?"

"No, just ridiculous," Arthur says, and Alfred laughs in reply. Arthur rolls his eyes and takes a step back.

"It's true, though. Every word," Alfred says, his expression softening into such a fond look that Arthur's heart races for a moment.

He opens his mouth, wanting to return the sentiment, but the thought of other people hearing him makes him choke. "...you ruined my hot dog."

Alfred lets out a loud laugh at that, and he grins. "Well, I'll just have to buy you another one, won't I?"

Alfred takes his hand, leading him back into the restaurant, and rather than pull it back, Arthur gives his hand a gentle squeeze. It's the very least he can do.


	5. Jacket

**Jacket  
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**A/N: Because I can't resist England in America's jacket, ha ha.  
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><p>It was just sitting there draped over the back of what had been America's chair during the meeting—that damned jacket of his.<p>

England shook his head and clicked his tongue as he pulled the jacket off the chair and brushed it off. For something America seemed to treasure so much, he really did a terrible job of taking care of it. If England hadn't noticed it, someone else might have simply thrown it out.

Holding it up at arm's length, England had to shake his head again. America was really unnecessarily big—no longer the sweet little boy he'd once been. England snorted to himself as he thought of how he might drown in it if he wore the jacket.

He lowered it and looked around, but everyone had left a long time ago. He was the only one remaining.

England swallowed, then he slipped one arm into the jacket's sleeve, then the other. He straightened the jacket and smirked—it really was huge. As he pulled the collar closer around him, he breathed in deep, though he quickly dismissed the action as unintentional.

_Ah, it smells like him_, he thought, but although he'd been expecting it to smell of hamburgers and grease, England instead found himself thinking of warm summer days, crisp mountain air, seemingly endless fields of grain and ocean breezes all at once. The scent of the jacket was both comforting and exhilarating.

Despite himself, England found his cheeks beginning to warm as he pulled the jacket closer around himself. He was beginning to abandon any pretense that his actions were unintentional and that he simply wanted to wear the jacket and have something of America's around him. He couldn't have America's arms around him, after all. He could, however, imagine that America had placed the jacket around him with some foolish excuse about trying to be a gentleman because it was cold out and he didn't want England to freeze while England grumbled and protested. Only in his dreams, he thought with a wry smile.

As he began to bury his face into the jacket, content to comfort himself with the smell and feel of it, the sound of a door opening made England snap upright, and he felt his stomach drop somewhere near the floor when America stepped through the door.

Rather than grin like a predator who had spotted its prey or immediately tease him for what he was doing, America's eyes widened and his face turned a bright shade of red. He moved his mouth wordlessly for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"Oh, good. You, uh...found my jacket." America's voice sounded a little strained and he cleared his throat again.

England nodded without a word and quickly removed the jacket, holding it for America to take and averting his burning face. With any luck the floor would open and swallow him up. But it didn't, and America took the jacket from him, though England didn't bother to look at him face to face.

"So...I'll see you later...or something,"America said, voice still strained, and England waited until well after the sound of America leaving the room had faded to follow after.


	6. Fifty Years

**Fifty Years  
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><p>"Fifty years is a long time," America said and kicked at the ground. "Just think, if we were human, we'd be old men and could reminisce about the good old days and how those damn kids these days don't appreciate the value of a hard day's work."<p>

"You _are_ one of those damn kids, America, and you know it." England scoffed next to him and huddled into his coat. America mimicked the action—the chill of the autumn air cut through his jacket, and it would only get colder as the sun set.

"Well, I guess in your case you could reminisce about how you were around in the days of Jesus and those damn kids don't appreciate the value of a good miracle," America said and turned to grin at England.

"Fuck you." England lifted his hand to flash his middle finger at America, causing America to laugh.

_You already did that back in '67_, America nearly said, but managed to bite his tongue before he could voice the words. It was an unspoken agreement, but an agreement nonetheless that they never speak of that incident ever again.

He shook his head and looked at the sky—orange and pink as the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon. "But really, fifty years is a long time."

"Yes...and the world is ever changing."

"For better or for worse," America said in agreement. He stopped walking and shuffled his feet, and England paused next to him.

"And I think it's way too long to be denying what I really want, so..." America turned and smiled sheepishly at England before his expression went solemn. He lifted his hand and held it out to England. "It's about fifty years late, but what do you say, England? Let's give 'us' a chance. No politics or anything else standing in the way this time."

England's eyes widened and his mouth fell open, and for a painfully long moment he remained silent. America shifted his weight uncomfortably, suddenly afraid that England would reject him, but then England lifted his hand and America's heart raced.

Instead of taking his hand however, England scowled and grabbed America's arm instead.

"Oh, come here, you idiot."

America yelped as he was pulled into a rough kiss, but he recovered quickly and pulled England into his arms. He felt England's smile against his mouth as they kissed, and America grinned enough to match it and then some.


	7. Sightless

**Sightless  
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**A/N: This one is an AU where Arthur is blind.  
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><p>"I want to see what you look like."<p>

Alfred whipped around to gape at Arthur, who was setting his book to the side. He frowned and tilted his head as he regarded Arthur. "Don't tell me you've been able to see the entire time and you've just been dicking around with—"

"Alfred. Keep quiet and hold still."

Alfred snapped his mouth shut and did as he was told. Arthur turned to face him, shifting across the couch to sit very close. His eyes were cloudy and looking without seeing, and Alfred felt guilty for throwing such a cruel accusation his way.

Arthur, his blind boyfriend—though he did everything in his power to make sure it was not as much of a disability as it potentially could be. For Alfred it was frustrating at times when he wanted to play the hero, but Arthur wanted to prove that he was self reliant and didn't need anyone's help.

His lack of vision really wasn't much of a hindrance when his hearing and sense of touch were heightened in exchange. Alfred liked to listen to Arthur's observations about the goings on around them when they were out on dates, and how Arthur would often notice things before Alfred did. For Alfred, it was nice to know that someone could fall in love with him for who he was and not just because he had a "pretty face".

But although they were dating, they had yet to do anything beyond hold hands, so Arthur shifting very close to him made Alfred's heart race and his cheeks begin to burn.

Arthur grabbed his arm, feeling it out as a guide, then his hands slowly found their way to his face. Alfred swallowed as Arthur cupped his cheeks.

"You're blushing," Arthur said with a small grin on his face.

"Shut up," Alfred said, grumbling.

Arthur laughed, but his smile after was fond, and Alfred couldn't be angry, especially when Arthur started thumbing his cheeks. Arthur bit at his lip in concentration, and Alfred remained as still as possible as Arthur's fingers drifted over his cheeks up to his temples. They threaded in his hair and Arthur paused.

"Your hair is blond?" he asked.

"Y-Yeah," Alfred replied and inhaled deeply when Arthur's fingers began to move again.

The care with which Arthur touched him was undeniable, and Alfred imagined Arthur mapping out his face with each place he touched—across his forehead, drifting down his nose and then moving to lightly touch his eyelids.

"And your eyes are blue," Arthur said in a quiet voice, repeating what Alfred had told him before. He bit his lip again and finished his exploration with Alfred's lips and chin, where his hands finally lingered. He stayed frozen in place for a few moments, then he shook his head and frowned. "Of course you'd be beautiful."

"You are, too," Alfred said, not caring how sappy it sounded, and he reached up to place his hands over Arthur's.

Arthur scoffed, but rather than hit him as he was normally wont to do, he moved his thumbs to run over Alfred's lips. Alfred's heart pounded as Arthur leaned in even closer, and he only had an instant to suck in a breath before Arthur's mouth closed over his.


	8. Reunion

**Reunion**

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><p>Arthur nearly looked at the clock again, but caught himself before he did. He could look at the clock all he wanted and it wouldn't bring Alfred home any faster. Arthur sighed and sipped at his cooling tea.<p>

Despite himself, however, Arthur looked over to his mobile, where the same message from before was displayed on the screen. Alfred had sent a message saying that his flight was delayed, so he'd arrive about an hour later than originally planned. It was well over an hour past Alfred's original arrival time, and there was still no sign of him or any further updates to his whereabouts.

He wasn't pining, and Arthur wouldn't dare entertain such silly notions. It was simply quite annoying that he'd been prepared for Alfred's return and it was being delayed while the food he'd painstakingly prepared was getting cold and the hot chocolate he'd bought especially for Alfred was going to waste. Yes, he had every right to feel indignant.

Or so he told himself, but he sunk into his chair as he admitted to himself that he wanted nothing more than to see Alfred again.

Their relationship was long distance to begin with. Neither was willing to leave the home they'd always known, so they had to be satisfied with seeing each other only a few times a year. To add to already complicated matters, Alfred had the tendency to go off on great adventures for the next archaeological find and their usual internet or telephone correspondence was reduced to little more than clipped conversations.

Such had been the reason for their most recent separation, with Alfred's love of adventure outweighing his love for Arthur—or so Arthur had decided to believe. It had been over a year since they'd last seen each other, and Arthur was getting tired.

Arthur often wondered if it was even worth the effort, especially when they had the tendency to bicker over even the most foolish of things. Of course when he was actually with Alfred, his common sense would be abandoned in favor of sentimental nonsense.

Before he could stop himself, he looked at the clock. Alfred was two hours late now, and Arthur was tired of waiting. His teacup rattled against its saucer as he slammed it down, then stood, ready to sulk in his bedroom until Alfred decided to show his face.

As he was passing the front hall, however, the click of the door unlocking made him freeze. A moment later, Alfred appeared, looking as though he'd spent many, many hours in the sun—he had, no doubt. Arthur's heart raced, and for a moment he was painfully aware of rational thought slipping away in favor of Alfred, Alfred, Alfred, Alfred, _Alfred_.

Alfred kicked his luggage in the door and swore under his breath while Arthur gaped at him, frozen in place. Alfred ran a hand through his hair and then their eyes finally met, and Arthur's breath hitched.

"Hey," Alfred said, a sheepish tone to his voice. At any other time Arthur would have been pleased that Alfred had the decency to be ashamed of himself for his behavior, but he was too busy staring like a fool. Alfred shrugged off his coat and stepped inside. "Sorry I'm late. I wanted to contact you, but my phone wasn't getting any reception. Do you really have to live in the middle of fucking nowhere like this? It's a pain in the ass to get here."

Arthur wasn't listening to a word Alfred was saying, although he was quite content to hear that flat accent of his and watch the words come from that mouth. As much of a pain it was to keep their relationship together, Arthur could be so easily reminded in an instant of why he was in love with such an idiot in the first place.

Alfred started to speak again, but Arthur still wasn't listening. His feet started moving of their own accord—slow and stilted at first, but with increasing speed until he was actually running to close the distance between himself and Alfred. Alfred's eyes widened just as Arthur launched himself, tackling Alfred to the ground and kissing him for all he was worth.

Arthur straddled Alfred's thighs and tugged on his tie, nipping at Alfred's lips until he took the hint and opened his mouth. His mind started to regain some rational thought, though his primary objective was still to keep Alfred pinned to the floor and enjoy a moment of selfish indulgence. His hands moved from the tie to Alfred's hair when Alfred started to cling to him, pulling him closer. He murmured Alfred's name in the brief moments between kisses, and it was with a great deal of reluctance that he finally pulled away, though he kept their faces close.

Alfred shook his head, looking dazed, then he chuckled as though resigned to his fate.

"I missed you, too."


	9. All I Have Left

**All I Have Left**

**A/N: Zombies!**

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><p>Alfred blinks back spots clouding his vision, gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his leg. Looking down, he sees Arthur dressing the wound—his leg twisted and bleeding from when he'd been careless. If he had been paying more attention, his leg wouldn't have wound up stuck in a pipe, he wouldn't have wrenched it free in a manner that would mangle it.<p>

"They're going to catch onto the blood. They'll follow the trail here eventually," he says, looking up to address Arthur.

Arthur pauses to give him a cold look then resumes bandaging his leg.

Arthur is his lover, although there is hardly time for things like kisses and hugs. No, they are each other's support, each other's sanity—something to hold onto in a broken world.

The night they got together was the night it happened. They had been out drinking, celebrating their new relationship, and had returned to Arthur's apartment, where both were too drunk to do anything beyond sloppy kisses. Alfred had fallen asleep on Arthur's couch that night.

The following morning, they learned of the chemical spill and the virus that had infected most of the population and was rapidly spreading. Had Alfred gone home that night, he'd be among the living dead.

Zombies—something that had always terrified Alfred in the movies is now reality. His fear is gone now, replaced with an almost systematic way of dispatching the zombies they encounter. Making use of whatever tools are available is second nature. He feels no more remorse in blowing a zombie's head off, knowing that it is no longer a person, but an empty shell with only the need to feed on warm flesh and blood. Each day is a struggle to survive as they search for a place where they can truly be safe.

Or rather, that was the plan, but then Alfred had to be careless. It was a miracle that he managed to escape in the first place, but while their temporary safe haven in an abandoned apartment complex may be free of zombies at the moment, it is indeed only temporary. They'll follow the trail of blood in large numbers, hungry for something that is in increasingly short supply. Alfred was lucky before, but he can't count on it lasting. The zombies will find them before his leg is healed, but there's no way he can outrun them, either. No matter what, his demise seems inevitable.

But that doesn't mean the same has to be true for Arthur.

"You know, if you leave now, you can probably cover a lot of ground before the zombie hordes show up," he says, trying to be casual about leaving himself out of that escape plan. Arthur finishes bandaging his leg and glares.

"I'm not leaving," Arthur says in a cold voice. Alfred sighs and tries to smile—the lopsided kind that he knows Arthur can't resist.

"Come on! There's no point in both of us dying, Arthur. If you leave, then there won't be any—"

"I'm not leaving!" Arthur's voice takes on a slightly hysterical tone and he slams his fist against the wall, causing Alfred to jump slightly.

"Arthur…" Alfred doesn't finish, watching as Arthur trembles and blinks rapidly, fighting back tears threatening to spill. Alfred understands, of course. He'd be feeling the same way if their situations were reversed. It's not simply a matter of losing the last living person they know. It's losing each other.

They had fallen in love before everything went to hell. Being the last good thing they could hold onto merely deepened that love. Neither wants to lose the other. Ever.

"You're a stupid, careless bastard, but I'm not leaving," Arthur says in a shaky voice, and he wraps his arms around Alfred's head before Alfred can respond.

Alfred lets out a breath as Arthur holds him, still trembling, and he looks around the room. The shotgun they'd managed to find sits on the floor, along with a fire axe and a hammer. What may be their last line of defense when the zombies find them.

Alfred tilts his head to look at Arthur, receiving an angry glare in return. He smiles and returns Arthur's embrace with a loose one of his own.

If he's going to die, at least it won't be alone.


	10. Save the Last Dance For Me

**"Save the Last Dance For Me"  
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><p>When America really wanted to, he could be the most charming gentleman one had ever met. With just the right flash of those beautiful blue eyes and a winning smile, coupled with manners that one would swear America never possessed if they saw him on a normal day, he could make even the most stubborn of hearts open up for awhile.<p>

England had been the fool for that charm many a time, and while each time he swore he would never fall again, he would be won over with very little effort even at his most stubborn.

Occasionally, however, England would swear that America used that charm on others with the intention of riling him up.

Such as how at a fancy gala event they both were attending, he drifted from one group of chatting people to another, dancing with many a beautiful woman who looked utterly smitten with him. All the while he had that perfect charm turned on and looked so very handsome that England had to congratulate himself for not dragging America off to the nearest dark corner to ravish him.

There was one woman that seemed to have won America's favor in particular, and England took a violent sip of his wine as America whispered something into her ear that made her giggle and lightly hit his arm. His already bright smile widened, and then he bowed as he invited her out onto the floor for yet another dance.

England knew that there was no need to be upset. When the night was through, _he_ would be the one leaving with America. It would be with _him_ that America would make love when they were alone in their hotel room. There was no one else that America would hold and mutter "god, I love you, sweetheart" to, no matter how much others may have wanted him to.

Even so, England placed his glass to the side and straightened his tie as he crossed the dance floor to tap on the woman's shoulder. America looked just as surprised as she did as they stopped dancing to stare at England.

He cleared his throat and fixed his own charming smile onto his face as he made it clear that he was addressing the woman and not America.

"Pardon me, love, but may I cut in?"

She looked dazed, allowing England the opportunity to step in and whisk America away, leading him in the dance. America looked at her in shock, then frowned as he turned his attention to England.

"What was that for?"

England's smile widened as he worked America into a dip. "The night is drawing to a close and I must insist on the last dance, my love."


	11. First Impressions

**First Impressions**

**A/N: Re-watching The Wonder Years made me want to write something similar, and this is the result. :)**

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><p>(<em>When I was a bright-eyed high school graduate, the world was my oyster. I believed that I could take on anything without any effort at all. Summer temp job? No sweat. College? A breeze. I was a man in control of my own destiny, no longer tied to my parents.<em>)

"Al!"

Alfred groaned and leaned over the back of his chair to shout out his bedroom door.

"I'm busy, Mom! Give me, like…twenty minutes to finish this raid!"

Regardless of what he thought was a perfectly acceptable excuse for not leaving his computer to do whatever his mother wanted of him, she appeared in his doorway with a stern look on her face. "I will _not_ wait, Alfred! You promised you would get a job this summer and I've yet to see any results."

(_All right, so technically I was still living under my parents' roof that summer, but I'd earned a scholarship for school and swore that all other expenses would be handled on my own. I'd waited almost eighteen years for my freedom and I wasn't about to let it go to waste._)

"Come on, Mom! Just a little longer and I swear I'll look through the classified ads again," he said, but he was already looking back at the computer to focus on World of Warcraft than whatever his mother wanted. That lasted all of about ten seconds before he found himself staring at a black screen. He blinked, then ripped his headset off and turned around to see his mother holding the power cord with a triumphant smirk on her face.

"No. _Now_."

(_My mother. A beautiful woman who had loved and guided me through the many trials of my young life. She was kind and nurturing, and I knew that no matter what, I could always rely on her. I also knew, of course, that she could utterly destroy me if she really wanted to._)

Alfred grimaced and tossed the headset onto the desk, leaning back into the chair with a defeated sigh.

"All right, all right. I'll go look around town for any openings."

(_The summer following my high school graduation seemed unremarkable at first. I did everything as I normally did in previous years—I stayed up and slept in late, I played a lot of computer games, I spent a lot of time outside and in general accomplished a whole lot of nothing. I was going to start college in the fall, and of course I had to get a job that paid well if I expected to support myself, but I was still enjoying my summer vacation as I always had._

_There are moments that can change the course of your life completely, and that sunny day in June remains one of the most significant life changing moments, and not just because I was heading to college._)

Alfred began to regret not getting an earlier start on his job hunt. Of course he wasn't the only teenager looking for summer work. All of the most desirable jobs no longer had openings and with each establishment that he visited and was turned away from, it was becoming more and more obvious that working at McDonald's all summer was in his future. While he loved to eat the food, he didn't want to work there if he could help it. He'd spent previous summers working part-time there, and even part-time was more than he could handle at times. Full-time would be another story altogether.

Not deterred, Alfred submitted a few applications to retail stores, the library and his favorite science museum. Money was money and he wouldn't complain no matter how he managed to earn it, but actually enjoying work would make the summer go much smoother.

After spending a good portion of his morning and afternoon job hunting, Alfred decided to take a break in the mall. He stepped onto the escalator heading to the next level, planning to catch a movie to help him unwind. He was going to prove to his parents that he could take care of himself and that their concern about how well he'd be able to support himself when he left for school was unfounded, but being a responsible adult was already proving to be tiring.

He sighed and looked up, his eyes drifting away before they snapped back to gape at the escalator heading down to the first floor. Heading down was a man, and Alfred bolted back down the escalator, pushing past people with hurriedly mumbled apologies.

(_But he wasn't just any man. He was the owner of a bookstore near the mall. One of those small, but comfortable places that had been passed down from generation to generation. The man was Arthur Kirkland, and although rumor had it that he was a hardass who couldn't keep any employees on staff, the rumor also circulated that he paid very well. Being a stubborn teenager who believed I could take on anything, I decided that I wanted that job, no matter how much of a hardass my boss would be._)

"Hey! Hey, wait! Uh…Kirkland!"

Arthur turned around with a suspicious look on his face—his eyebrows enormous and knotted together in one huge, unsightly mass on his forehead.

(_There are really no words to describe just how enormous his eyebrows were. To this day I still think that they were actually a forest with little magical creatures living in them. Or bugs. They were home to something, I swear._)

"Do I know you?" Arthur asked, his eyes running over Alfred as if sizing him up.

Alfred shook his head, pausing to catch his breath. He finally stood up straight and smiled.

(_Yep, it was time to turn on the old Alfred charm._)

"Your eyebrows are really huge, you know that?"

(_Like I said, the old Alfred charm._)

Arthur's face turned a bright shade of red, his already knotted brows furrowing into an even more severe expression. He sputtered for a moment before he whipped his bags around, slamming them into Alfred before he stalked off.

"Bugger off, you prat!"

Alfred winced and clutched at his side, but he ran after Arthur.

"Wait, wait! That's not what I meant! Sorry, hey." Alfred ran in front of Arthur, blocking his path. Arthur glared and stepped around him. Alfred just followed and walked by his side. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I actually meant to introduce myself. I'm Alfred Jones, and I'd like to work for you."

Arthur snorted and pushed through the exit doors into the parking lot. "And why in the world would I ever want to hire you?"

Alfred caught the door before it closed and continued to follow Arthur. "Because I'm a hard worker! Because I'm good with people and I'm _really_ good with numbers and I can guarantee that you'll never meet anyone quite like me."

"Well, I can agree with you there. I've certainly never met _anyone_ quite like you."

"Soooo…you should give me a chance!"

Arthur finally stopped, halfway into the parking lot, and turned around to stare at Alfred.

(_Some may have called me an idiot. I like to think that I was just determined. I was a man on a mission and the promise of good money to start my first year of college off right drove me to somewhat desperate lengths. Including pursuing a man with enormous eyebrows out into the parking lot of a mall._

_Okay, so maybe it was somewhat idiotic._)

"I would rather move to France than hire an oaf like you!"

(_Now in Arthur's mind, this was a horrible insult, but to me it was an encouragement._)

"So you'll give me a chance?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to retort, but a loud honk made them both jump. Nearby was a car, the driver slamming on the horn, and that was when Alfred realized that they were standing right where they were blocking traffic.

"Quit blocking the road, assholes!"

Arthur huffed and stomped away with Alfred close behind. Arthur finally reached his car, and he threw his bags in the backseat before he opened the door to the driver's seat.

"So I'll come in for an interview later?" Alfred asked, beaming.

Arthur gave him one last cold glare before he disappeared into his car. He started up the engine with a loud roar, and Alfred had to jump out of the way before he got hit by Arthur's reckless driving. Alfred watched as Arthur peeled out of the parking lot, and he felt rather good about his future visit to the bookstore.

(_All right, so my first impression wasn't the greatest, but unknown to me at the time was that my tense encounter with Arthur Kirkland was only the beginning of something much, much bigger than just a summer job in a bookstore. Sometimes things happen to you that change your life forever, and meeting Arthur was just that._)


	12. Flower Shop

**Flower Shop  
><strong>

* * *

><p>It began with a desperate request for the best bouquet of flowers to impress someone with—a request that Arthur had fulfilled with ease and a selection of the lovely flowers in his shop. He sent off his patron with the confidence that his goal to impress someone with flowers would be more than achieved.<p>

The patron returned days later ranting about how the flowers had failed and he wanted his money back, but Arthur refused. At some point in the exchange, Arthur learned that his angry customer was named Alfred.

Alfred continued to return, demanding his money at first and making Arthur's blood pressure rise every time he heard the bell of his door and looked up to find Alfred entering the shop, but soon his demands began to turn back into requests for flower arrangements.

Arthur, meanwhile, found Alfred's presence less and less irritating with each subsequent visit. What was once scathing insults gave way to much more casual banter. He might have even dared to say he was growing fond of Alfred.

It was one day, sometime later, that Alfred came in dressed in a nice suit with his hair carefully styled. He requested an arrangement he could use to confess his love for someone. Although it hurt to think of Alfred finding someone new to spend his time with, Arthur picked out the finest flowers in his shop, arranged to perfection. As he handed the bouquet to Alfred, he found it pushed back into his arms. When he opened his mouth to protest that there was no way Alfred could refuse to take such a perfect arrangement with him, he found Alfred with a sheepish smile on his face, his cheeks pink.

"So…did it work?"

To Arthur's surprise, he found that it did.


	13. Don't Let It Show

**Don't Let It Show  
><strong>

**A/N: Just a bit of tsun-tsun England, heh.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>England sees America before America sees him, but he doesn't want to be the one to make the first move. He shoves his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight as he watches America scan the crowd. When America continues to look right past him, England scowls. As much as he doesn't want to be the one to seek out America, he also doesn't want him to get lost in the crowded airport. England clears his throat and speaks in a loud voice over the buzz of activity around him.<p>

"Alfred F. Jones."

America stops, his seldom used human alias catching his attention, and he looks wildly around until, finally, his attention settles on England. America's face lights up in a smile, and England thinks that America puts the sun to shame with the warmth and brilliance in his smile before he catches himself in his sentimentality.

Having an entire ocean between them is terribly cruel, especially when they are apart and England becomes aware of how wanting to see America is not as simple as a weekend holiday in the countryside, but making sure both of their schedules match before they plan their visits. Even if he did decide to visit America on a lark, there would still be the matter of the long plane ride and the hassles of the airport.

Long separations or not, however, England never wants it to be obvious just how pointedly he feels America's absence. But while he can remain stony-faced and rigid, he cannot stop his heart from pounding as America rapidly closes the distance between them. He removes his hands from his pockets, but he clenches them at his side lest he hold them up in his desire to touch America. It is all pretense, because there is nothing he would like to do more than to tackle America and kiss him senseless.

America, blunt fool that he is, does not possess that problem, and his suitcase clatters to the floor as he drops it to free his hands to sweep England off his feet into a hug. England sputters and flails, making sure to remind America of what an oafish idiot he is before he clings to America, still suspended in the air. America laughs and holds him close, mumbling insincere apologies mixed with blunt statements about how much he missed England. America is always too blunt.

The moment his face is hidden over America's shoulder, England smiles to himself and curls his hands into America's back—so he won't fall in case America lets go of him, of course. He breathes in deep, because America smells like the ocean and the mountains and fields of grain and other things that he knows no one person can smell like all at once, but America somehow makes possible.

He fixes back into a stern frown when America pulls back to kiss him with too much tongue for somewhere so crowded. England grunts and forces America back into a simple peck on the lips, pulling away despite America's whine. He scowls in response to America's smile, but with their close proximity England can't help but concentrate on how America is beautiful and perfect despite being an imperfect idiot. His scowl deepens as his cheeks threaten to warm, but his heart is still pounding and America must feel it, close as they are. No matter how careful his composure, his heart will always give him away.

America lowers him to the ground and England smooths out the wrinkles in his suit while America retrieves his abandoned suitcase. America's right hand remains free and while England's hand itches to reach for it, he shoves both of his hands back into his pockets. He walks ahead of America, leading the way to the car park. Behind him, America laughs.

"By the way, it's cute when you're pretending not to be happy to see me."

And England trips on his way out the door.


	14. Derpcakes

**Derpcakes**

**A/N: Just some fluff!  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Find all of the cupcakes to spell out a secret phrase!"<p>

Arthur knew it was foolish, and he knew that it was merely one of Alfred's ploys to distract him while he caused some sort of mischief, but he played along with the game anyway.

Arthur wasn't sure why Alfred picked cupcakes for his scheme when he hid them in places that rendered them unfit for eating, but he collected each cupcake anyway. They were decorated carefully with an icing letter on each one, but Arthur did not stop to try to solve Alfred's silly puzzle. The sooner he found the cupcakes, the sooner he'd stop Alfred from whatever mess he was getting himself into in the meantime.

On the table in the kitchen was a cupcake that seemed far too conspicuous to be part of Alfred's game. A bright blue icing "i" was on the cupcake, however, and Arthur knew he'd found the beginning of Alfred's "secret phrase". It was mostly likely going to wind up being "I totally tricked you, dude" or something equally asinine. For that reason, Arthur did not feel guilty about eating that particular cupcake.

The cupcakes were dusty and some covered in cobwebs, once again leading Arthur to wonder why Alfred had chosen to waste perfectly good, if excessively sweet, food for his game. He wasn't sure if he'd found them all, but he opted to try to decipher the message anyway.

He had thirteen cupcakes, a mix of m's, r's, l's and y's among others, but nothing seemed immediately obvious. He was looking for one of Alfred's cheeky insults, but no matter how he arranged them, he couldn't turn the cupcakes into something Alfred would probably say.

"Me" and "you" took shape, and Arthur froze. Even with the missing "i" he'd eaten, the message was suddenly clear. He stood up abruptly, making the chair he'd been sitting in clatter to the floor.

"Alfr—"

Alfred was already standing in the doorway, smiling sheepishly. He scratched at his head and shifted his weight. "Well, will you?"

Arthur stared at Alfred, not saying anything, and turned to look back at the cupcake message still sitting on the counter.

"Cupcakes, Alfred?" His voice was weak and he cleared his throat. Across the room, Alfred chuckled.

"I knew you'd probably just hit me if I asked you directly, so..."

Arthur's eyes widened when a ring blocked his view of the cupcakes, making him snap his head up to gape at Alfred again. This time Alfred looked nervous.

"It would make me really happy if you said yes?"

Arthur looked from Alfred to the ring and back, and he turned away as he snatched the ring out of Alfred's fingers.

"...all right," Arthur said in a quiet voice.

He heard Alfred let out a deep breath then start to chuckle, the sound growing into one of Alfred's trademark loud, infectious laughs until Arthur found himself spun around into a hug. He nearly protested, but it was not the time for putting up a front—he was far too happy to do that. Arthur grinned to himself and returned Alfred's tight embrace.

The cupcakes were covered in dust and Arthur had eaten the "i", but the message was still plain as day.

"Will you marry me?"


	15. This Could Get Messy

**This Could Get Messy  
><strong>

**A/N: Inspired by "Hands Clean" by Alanis Morissette.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The man of the hour was arriving, someone said, and Alfred lowered his champagne flute to turn to look. He couldn't help but smile as he spotted the person everyone was looking at, and he set his flute aside and straightened his tie.<p>

"He's the one. Arthur Kirkland. He's the guy that'll get you places," Alfred's friend said, and Alfred turned to smile at him.

"No problem, I got this." He flashed a thumbs-up before he set off into the crowd.

It was the first time he'd ever attended a party for that company, but it was hardly his first time meeting the CEO. He was already very well acquainted with Arthur Kirkland—_very_ well acquainted.

_He was trembling violently, believing that he'd completely blown the interview and was going to be laughed out of the office. He was just a stupid intern, thinking that he could work for the famous Kirkland family. But Arthur was smiling pleasantly—perhaps too pleasantly._

"_Intern, hmm? Yes, you'll make a fine aide, won't you?"_

"Alfred, m'boy! Come here and meet Arthur Kirkland!"

Alfred straightened his shoulders and fixed an easy smile on his face as an elderly gentleman wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him through the crowd to where Arthur was chatting with a group of people. Arthur turned, laughing, but it was cut short as Alfred approached. Arthur's face paled slightly.

"_You're too skilled to be a mere aide, aren't you?" Arthur asked, looking up from his paperwork with a raised eyebrow._

_Alfred set down the cup of tea and stiffened. True, mere office errands were hardly what he'd had in mind for his internship, but when he was directly working with the CEO, he couldn't complain. "Not at all, sir. I'm happy for the opportunity to learn from you."_

_Arthur smiled as he picked up his cup of tea—a curious sort of smile that Alfred couldn't quite identify._

"_Well, you'll be amazed at the sort of opportunities that may arise in the future."_

"Alfred Jones. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirkland," Alfred said smoothly, lifting his right hand for a handshake.

Arthur looked close to vomiting, but he straightened up and took Alfred's hand in his for a firm handshake.

"Likewise, Mr. Jones. I imagine you are interested in a position at this company?"

Arthur swallowed thickly, but only Alfred noticed. He wanted to burst out laughing, but he kept his smile easy and casual, knowing that it would just make Arthur even more uncomfortable. Arthur really was entertaining when he was squirming—cute, even.

"Can't say I would mind that. Everyone wants an opportunity to work for Arthur Kirkland, and I'm not just being big-headed when I say I'm the best you'd ever get!"

_He was drooling on Arthur's expensive desk and his tie was ruined, he knew, but he couldn't control himself._

_Arthur was breathing heavily against his ear, occasionally murmuring. "Yes, yes, marvelous."_

_It was always good. It wasn't right, but it was always so good that he didn't care._

"_I'll take you places, Alfred. But you must keep this quiet." Arthur's voice was breathy, but still pointed. The threat was there._

"Yes, well. Submit your resume and cover letter and we might consider you for an interview. Talking big alone will not get you a job, Mr. Jones."

Arthur did not wait for Alfred's response before he walked away to speak to another large group of people, but Alfred's smile didn't fade, instead growing to a point where he must have looked manic. He chuckled to himself and made his way back to where he'd left his drink.

"_Sorry, sir, but I can't stay here anymore. I won't say a word about what happened and I'll pretend that I never met you. But next time, we'll be equals and you'll have to acknowledge me as one."_

Alfred eased himself against a wall with his drink, scanning the crowd. He caught Arthur looking at him and he grinned, lifting his champagne flute with a nod of his head. Arthur turned away, looking very uncomfortable, and Alfred bit back a laugh before he took a sip.


	16. To Hell With That

**To Hell With That  
><strong>

* * *

><p>England looked in the mirror as he straightened his shirt, stopping before he slipped on his tie as he noticed movement in the bed behind him. A mussed head of hair lifted off the pillow, then fell back onto it again immediately after. A groan followed, and England smiled to himself.<p>

He turned around and crossed the room, sitting on the bed and leaning over America's recumbent figure and bending down to catch America's lips in a kiss just as America turned his head.

"Good morning," England said as he pulled away, America blinking blearily up at him. "We're going to be late."

"And whose fault is that? You're the one who wouldn't let me sleep last night," America replied, and he grimaced as he stretched, his backside no doubt still sore.

"I won't accept excuses, now get up. All this hotel room has is dreadful American coffee and I want a good cuppa before we meet with your boss."

"To hell with that," America said, and England squawked as he was pulled onto the bed with very little effort. Struggling would be a waste of time when America was employing that strength of his to hold him down. "I'll give him a call and reschedule. We're going to stay in bed for a few more hours and then have really crazy sex. Then we'll do whatever the fuck we want because I haven't seen you in months."

England snorted, and he turned to give America an incredulous, but amused look. "Oh? And you believe you have the authority to change your boss's plans, just like that?"

"Yep."

There was no further comment, and England bit his tongue to keep from chastising America when he started snuggling against his neck, his breath warm as it fell into an even pattern. England sighed, exasperated but fond, and he nudged America to roll over so he could cuddle him proper.


	17. I Still Love You

**I Still Love You  
><strong>

**A/N: I actually found this while cleaning up my fanfic folder. It's two years old, so it might be a bit rough, but I thought I'd share it. :D  
><strong>

* * *

><p>His heart flutters at America's admission, a feeling of butterflies beating the walls of his stomach.<p>

"I love you," America says, "I've always loved you."

But then England remembers himself, remembers the way of the world, and he sobers up. Love has but one use in their world, and that is none at all. Alliances are made and broken when convenient, the shift of power unpredictable. As a nation, one needs allies in many places, not just one. You can't afford to fall in love.

"Shall we strengthen the Special Relationship then?" England replies coolly, not betraying his disappointment.

America's eyes brighten, his smile radiant, and England can almost convince himself that America _means _what he says when their bodies are flush against each other, America's breath next to his ear murmuring sweet words of love. England bites his lip to stop himself from crying out America's name.

He calmly cleans himself and dresses after, decidedly looking away from America's confused and dejected expression, lest his weakness and his own love that he locked away in his heart long ago betray him and he stays. Stays where only inevitable heartache waits.

"Where are you going?" America asks, the dismay in his voice twisting England's heart.

"We strengthened our alliance, didn't we? There's no need for me to stay," England replies, taking great care to not let his voice quiver. Then there's an arm around him and he freezes.

"I mean it, though. I love you."

"You know as well as I do that that's a lie, America." He shoves America off of him and continues to dress in a hurry. "You have too many allies, as do I."

He almost makes it to the door, but America, stubborn ass that he is, interrupts again.

"I'll prove it to you. That I can love you and keep my alliances, as well. Even if it takes a thousand years."

England's hand trembles above the doorknob, but then he swallows the lump in his throat and wrenches the door open. He doesn't look back once as he leaves.

Predictably, the world is ever changing over the years. One year he's on top again, the next he's clinging to whoever will take him. America, on the other side of the Atlantic, suffers a similar fate.

But it's what he continues to do that astounds England. No matter his strongest ally at the time, America repeatedly says that he loves England. Over and over, without fail. He's always trying to prove it, not deterred by England's continual rejection.

Finally, the Special Relationship is abolished, and England is not surprised. It was coming all along.

But then, the following day, America is on his step, a dozen roses in his hand and a sheepish smile on his face.

"I still love you," he says. "Politics and my heart are separate."

It's then that England believes him.


	18. A Little More Action

**A Little More Action  
><strong>

**A/N: Re-uploading this one, whoo. I actually rather like this one. :)  
><strong>

* * *

><p>England was bothered by the fact that he wasn't paying any attention to him, America knew. Normally he'd be all over England, demanding attention while England grumbled about him being a pest, but since arriving, he'd done little more than sit on England's couch and read the centuries old books he'd found in England's study.<p>

It was rather amusing to watch as England went about his work with a skeptical look on his face. He was waiting for when America would come drape himself over his shoulders and whine about wanting to do something fun instead of staying inside. America lay back on England's couch and folded his hands on his stomach, and that's when England snapped. America tried not to smile when England abandoned his paperwork and marched over to where America lay on the couch.

"What are you up to?" England asked, his brows furrowed.

America shrugged, a casual smile on his face. "What? I'm letting you work like you keep asking me to."

England's eyes narrowed, and America's smile stayed in place. "You're up to something, I know it."

"I'm crushed that you think so little of me, England!" America had to fight off his urge to grin in devious delight that he was ruffling England's feathers so much, but he managed to keep his glee in check. Instead, he kept his hands folded and his smile pleasant.

England's expression darkened, and then he climbed on top of the couch and leaned over America's body, one leg between America's. England brought his face very close to America's, and although America wanted to be cheeky and peck England on the lips, he kept his poker face in check.

"You haven't even touched me today," England said, accusing. America felt a little guilty at that. England wasn't one to admit out loud that he wanted attention and affection, but America never really gave him any need to, either.

"A little less conversation, a little more action, sweetheart?" America's smile widened just a bit, and England scowled.

The taunting paid off, however, when England closed the distance between them and kissed him. America closed his eyes, but he made no move to kiss back or lift his hands to touch England, knowing that it would drive England crazy. America could feel England's growing frustration as the kiss got more aggressive, and America could practically _hear_ the silent demands of "kiss me, touch me, pay attention to me, damn it" in England's actions.

At length, America finally moved his lips against England's and lifted a hand to touch England's face, the need to kiss England winning out over his amusement at teasing him. England groaned and collapsed against him, kissing him roughly and clutching at his hair. America wrapped his arms around England as he kissed back, both pleased to be kissing him and pleased that he knew how to push England's buttons like that.

When they broke apart, England panted for a moment before he scowled again. "You bastard. You planned that."

America shrugged again and grinned. "You're fun to rile up."

America didn't even mind when England hit him, because it was immediately followed by another kiss.


	19. Mine

**Mine  
><strong>

**A/N: Two updates in one day? Have a bit of NSFW-ish possessive!England.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>He wasn't jealous. He didn't get jealous.<p>

He just didn't like the way America smiled _that _way at others, didn't like how America became red-faced and flustered when someone else flirted with him, didn't like how America was warm and friendly with _everyone_.

He'd endured too many years of longing and loneliness, waited for too long to hear America admit that he felt the same way for it to be taken away from him. No, he wasn't jealous. He just didn't want to share.

"Shit, England," America said, voice thick as he clutched at the sheets with one hand and England's arm with the other.

England was being too rough, he knew, but all he could think of was America's smile—bright one moment and shy the next—as he conversed with the other nations. The same smiles that England enjoyed in the privacy of their bedroom as America lay beneath him, wanting him, loving him—the way it should be.

_Don't look at anyone else like that. Just look at me._

America turned his face against the pillow, screwing his eyes shut and looking torn between pain and unbearable pleasure. England leaned over and he kissed America with bruising force. America's eyes opened when England pulled away and he smiled—that smile that was just for him. And England smiled, as well.

Mine. Mineminemineminemine_minemine_


	20. Soft

**Soft  
><strong>

**A/N: Wrote this about a year ago for a friend. :)  
><strong>

* * *

><p>It starts in the kitchen. England scowls at the excessively indulgent breakfast before him with a critical eye and a scathing remark at the ready.<p>

But then America slides into the opposite seat and smiles, all oblivious warmth and sunshine, and England swallows his words along with his favorite loose leaf tea—the kind America obtained especially for him—with a knowing smile.

He'll excuse America's abysmal diet just this once.

* * *

><p>England likes to sew, and even if America describes it as the most boring activity in the world, he doesn't begrudge England his right to do so. America made it a point to get England what he describes as a "Masterpiece Theatre" chair for him to sit in while America sits in a nearby chair with the New York Times.<p>

It's easy to drift away to times when sitting with England like this was commonplace and calming. When he (literally) looked up to England. He finds that he prefers that they are now equals. He is not better than England, nor is England better than him.

England sits in his Masterpiece Theatre chair, his fingers working with quick, skillful movements as he handles the needle and thread, and he works with the practiced ease of someone who has done such work for years. He sings softly to himself, like always, and America chooses not to comment that the song is one of his 19th century classics. He is content to enjoy the sound of England's voice.

America will not complain, because when England presents him with one of his favorite shirts, good as new, he can't bring himself to mock the habit.

* * *

><p>Of all things for America to become heavily invested in, it would have to be those obnoxious video games of his. It does not help, of course, that Japan encourages the habit, and indulges America's demand for scary games, even knowing that he will wind up terrified of them.<p>

It's not a scary game America is playing, but it is very loud, regardless. England wrinkles his nose as America flails next to him, but doesn't take his eyes off his book. His attempts to follow the games have all ended in failure, but America insists that he sit there with him anyway. Any collateral damage from America's passionate and oftentimes violent reactions to the games are mere unfortunate side effects.

As is often the case, America appears to fail, and he throws his controller at his television with many indignant curses and plenty of insistence that whoever he is playing with cheated. America sits frowning, feeling sorry for himself. England lowers his book and sighs. He tugs on America's head, receiving some resistance, until it's in his lap. He turns his attention back to his book, but his fingers stroke at America's hair.

He continues long after he looks down to find America smiling in appreciation at him.

* * *

><p>Pretending to like England's food is an art that America has yet to master, but to say that he doesn't try would be a lie.<p>

Against his better judgment, he allows England to make him dinner. He watches in dismay as his beautiful, well-stocked kitchen is destroyed in the name of culinary conquest. In his defense, America shows a remarkable amount of restraint in intervening when England does something that might be potentially destructive. It's only when the oven starts smoking that he steps in despite England's protests that he has the situation under control.

The food that is placed in front of him at his dinner table is what England claims is roast beef, but America would describe it more accurately as a piece of tree bark. With some effort he manages to cut off a piece to stick in his mouth. He resists the urge to spit it out right away, but he can't lie about how terrible it is. England, who was wringing his hands all the while, calls him ungrateful and throws a dinner roll at his head.

His violent retort ceases when America eats another bite and then another, and although each time he comments on how awful it is, England is so visibly pleased by his empty plate that even if his decision haunts him later, America can't regret it.

* * *

><p>America's lips are insistent on his, and England returns the sloppy kiss with equal desire. His fingers splay on America's face, curling around his jaw to pull him closer. America returns the gesture, lifting England with ease into his lap. Above him, England is able to kiss America deeper, tasting the ice cream he ate to wash away the horrible taste of his dinner.<p>

England takes note of the way America holds him—relaxed and yet not willing to let him go. America laughs against his mouth and England breaks away. It's America's eyes that are most expressive, even if his smile says plenty, as well. There's no misinterpreting the way America looks at him, even without the words to accompany the meaning being those looks.

He can only hope that his eyes hold the same unspoken message, and he allows himself a small smile as he presses his lips to America's once more.


	21. Heat

**Heat**

* * *

><p>America is a sadist, England decides. It's the only possible explanation for why America would invite him for a visit in the middle of summer to sweltering heat and oppressive humidity and then insist on spending the time outside instead of inside in front of the air conditioner. He could retreat back inside, but then he knows that America would just pursue him and drag him—carry him even, if necessary—back outside.<p>

Although he hasn't bothered to silence his many complaints about the heat and his general dissatisfaction with it, he has also dutifully remained outside—albeit on a chair underneath a large umbrella instead of pulling weeds in the garden as America is doing. England has heard enough comments about his pale, scrawny legs and he has a feeling he'd faint if he tried to do anything strenuous in that heat anyway.

"How's the lemonade?"

England lowers his glass to regard America, who wipes at his forehead with the back of his arm. England huffs and holds up his glass for America to see.

"My ice has already melted."

"Eh? That so? It _is_ getting pretty hot, isn't it?"

England scoffs. "That is an understatement."

America doesn't respond, instead wiping at his forehead again and staring up at the sky. England nearly comments on how America is wasting time, but then America pulls his t-shirt, slightly covered in dirt and damp with sweat, up over his head and tosses it to the ground, revealing America's chest and abdomen. England pauses then lowers his lemonade glass to the adjacent table.

America lets out a deep breath, but England watches instead as beads of sweat trail from America's neck down his chest and across his abs—all of which are finely tuned—to vanish under the waistband of his jeans. England licks his lips, though he dismisses the action as merely removing the traces of lemonade there. America bends down to pull weeds once more and England watches the muscles in America's back flex with each movement he makes, his skin glistening with sweat. Perhaps the heat is not such a terrible thing, after all.

England grabs his lemonade glass again, his hand shaking slightly, and he gulps down a large amount of it to soothe his suddenly dry throat. While the view is lovely, England would rather that he enjoy the same view inside America's house, both sweating for an entirely different reason.

America stands upright again and grabs his discarded shirt, removing his glasses before he wipes at his face.

"Ahhh, it's really getting hot. What do you say we go inside for awhile?"

England lets his gaze rove over America's body—more beads of sweat making the same trek from America's neck down to his jeans—before he lowers his glass, smiling.


	22. Something Stupid

**Something Stupid  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Some party, huh?"<p>

England turned to look at him, and America smiled as he settled against the wall next to England with his glass of wine. England shook his head and turned to look at the congregation again with a furrowed brow. America followed his gaze to where many of the others were drinking, dancing and generally having a good time. It came as no surprise to America that England was scowling in a dark corner instead.

"Quite." England went quiet and America turned to look at him again. England swirled his glass, leaving America to wonder what number drink he was on, and then shifted away from the wall. "If you'll excuse me, America, I need some fresh air."

"Ah—wait, I'll come with you!"

England gave him a funny look but didn't comment, instead stepping away from the excitement to stand on the balcony instead. America followed and took a deep breath, the cool night air a relief. He turned to look at England, but immediately had to look away. The light of the moon was very flattering on England, emphasized by the fact that he was wearing a nice suit and had attempted to tame his wild hair.

"Shouldn't you be back inside, America? I noticed you…_dancing_ with Ukraine earlier. Poor girl looked terrified."

America chuckled nervously, though he continued to stare intently at his wine. "What about you? Didn't Prussia try to get you to leave to do something else instead? With more booze or something?"

England huffed. "There are very few things that would be less appealing to me than spending an evening with that idiot. But then, standing out here with you is hardly my idea of a perfect evening, either."

America turned to look at England again, even knowing he shouldn't, and he immediately regretted it. England had a small smile on his face, not malicious, and America stood staring, transfixed. England, in his nice suit with his attempt at tamed hair and the light of the moon shining on him just so and _that smile_—

He could say something sarcastic and snappy at England—that there was no better way to spend one's evening than with a hero like him, for one thing—or he could say something cool and suave to make England melt. He'd practiced many times before, after all. He'd been practicing for just that kind of moment where they were alone together and England wasn't angry at him so he could say just the right words that would communicate his feelings to England. Every time he thought about acting on his feelings, something would come up or he'd justify to himself why it wasn't a good idea. England was much older than him, so he'd probably heard thousands of confessions and didn't think anything of them anymore. England may have teased him and gotten flustered because of him, but that didn't mean he was also in love.

But England looked perfect and he _was_ perfect and America had to catch himself before his mind turned to mush and he started thinking about how England was wearing different cologne and it was only adding to the image he was projecting.

America opened his mouth, prepared to change the subject, but then England's smile widened just a bit and America's mind went into overdrive.

"I love you!"

America froze and England froze, as well—at least at first. Then his eyes widened and his mouth fell open and the glass in his hand slipped out and shattered against the ground. The sound of breaking glass made them both snap to attention.

"America, what—"

Rather than wait for England's response, rejection or otherwise, America also dropped his glass before he turned and fled. It was the most uncool, not heroic thing he could possibly do, but he didn't want to face the repercussions of ruining a perfectly good moment by saying something completely idiotic like that.


	23. Real Smooth

**Real Smooth  
><strong>

* * *

><p>England groaned as he collapsed back against America's bed, immediately reaching for America to pull him back into a greedy kiss. He started to blindly fumble for the zipper on America's trousers without much success until America shifted above him for easier access.<p>

"Mmmph, wait a sec, England," America said, pulling away despite England's impatient growl of protest.

He reached over to something on his bedside table then pulled his t-shirt over his head before he resumed kissing England.

England hummed his appreciation as America kissed him deeply, but just as he was about to finally make short work of America's trousers, music drifted over to his ears. He broke the kiss with a furrowed brow.

"America, what are we listening to?"

"Wait a minute, this is the best part!" America leaned over again, and England noticed this time that he was fiddling with that iPod thing of his. The volume increased, but more horrifying was how America sat back and started to jerk back and forth in what was probably an attempt at dancing.

"I'll make love to you like you want me to and I'll hold you tight, baby all through the night," America sang loudly and off-key, mock shooting at England with both hands.

"I'll make love to you when you want me to and I will not let goooo till you tell me to." He finished off with a wink and a flourish, looking very pleased with himself.

England gaped up at America, at a complete loss of how to properly react to that. The music continued to blare as America's gaze swept down over England's body then back at his face.

"…we're not having sex anymore, are we?"


	24. Young Master

**Young Master  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"You're late."<p>

Arthur stiffened then immediately relaxed, removing his coat with a sigh. "You're up past your bedtime."

"You're _late_."

Arthur let out a deep breath and flipped on the light to the drawing room, revealing Alfred sitting in one of the high back chairs, his hands gripping at the armrests. His eyes were red and puffy, but he would not be swayed. He crossed the room and stood in front of Alfred, folding his arms.

"You are well aware that your parents have given me Thursdays off, Alfred. I informed your mother this morning that I would return late this evening."

Alfred's grip on the armrests tightened, making his knuckles turn white. "You didn't inform _me_."

"Well, _Young Master_," Arthur said, not bothering to mask his sarcasm. "_You_ are not the paying my salary, are you? Come now, time for bed."

Alfred gave him a cold glare, which Arthur did not back away from. Being Alfred's personal butler did not mean he was required to succumb to every single one of his selfish whims. At fifteen, Alfred should have outgrown such self-centered tendencies.

He reached out to take Alfred's hand, but Alfred smacked it away, bolting out of the room. Arthur listened as Alfred stomped up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door. Arthur sighed and began to clean up Alfred's mess.


	25. Break

**Break  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Hey, Arthur. Just thought you should know that you're really boring."<p>

"I don't recall _asking_ you to spend your afternoon in here, Alfred. You are free to leave and do something else."

Alfred looked up from his Rubik's cube at Arthur, sitting at his desk and pouring over what looked like mountains of paperwork. He scrunched up his nose and tossed the cube to the corner, standing up to walk over to Arthur's desk.

"I just thought that since we're, you know, dating that we'd actually go on _dates_," Alfred said, looking down at Arthur with what he hoped was a heart-wrenching pout.

Arthur's cheeks turned pink, but he didn't look up. "I _do_, however, remember telling you implicitly that by 'dating' me, you would have to work around my schedule."

"Don't you have a vice president and those other guys to help you with all of this?" Alfred was aware that he was starting to whine, but even though he knew that dating the class president meant that they wouldn't have as much time together as they might have otherwise, he hadn't counted on having _no_ time with Arthur. He wanted more than just stolen kisses between classes.

"You know as well as I do that Feliciano, Angelique and Francis are entirely incompetent. Just this afternoon Francis was with Gilbert and Antonio streaking through the courtyard."

"Well, can't you take a break? I want to get a burger with my boyfriend," Alfred replied, moving to stand behind Arthur instead.

"Don't be childish, Alfred. After I finish with these activity plans, I have my own assignments to work on and then–"

Alfred, tired of Arthur's excuses, tilted Arthur's head back and kissed him, effectively silencing any further protests. At first Arthur was stiff, and the pen in his hand clattered to the floor, but finally Alfred felt Arthur's exhale on the bottom of his chin and then Arthur was kissing back. Alfred couldn't help but smile when Arthur's hand reached back to clutch at the back of his neck, pulling him down and deepening the kiss.

Arthur's cheeks were flushed when Alfred finally started to pull away, nibbling on Arthur's lip one last time for good measure, and he grinned down at him.

"...I still have work to do," Arthur replied, breathless. He swallowed and slowly adjusted himself upright again.

For a moment Alfred felt irritated and he wanted to lift Arthur into his arms and carry him out of the room, protests be damned, but the sight of Arthur, blushing up to his ears, made him pause.

"Guess I'll just have to bring you breakfast tomorrow morning," Alfred said as he retrieved the discarded Rubik's cube and took his vacated seat. Arthur didn't respond, but Alfred caught the way his pen momentarily faltered, and he smiled to himself.


	26. Roses

**Roses  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The clock tower at noon. He'd confirmed it multiple times. Even as a torrent of rain began to fall, he'd made sure to be at the designated spot. He watched as others scrambled to find shelter or huddled under their brollies as they walked through the rain.<p>

Arthur was convinced that today would be the day. He had a dozen roses in hand and enough conviction to overcome his anxiety. He would ask Alfred to be more than just the friend he spoke with on a near daily basis in his favorite coffee shop. Arthur hated coffee, and he put up with the same weak cup of tea day after day because Alfred liked going there. He never failed to voice his distaste, but he didn't insist that they go somewhere else, either.

Alfred Jones. The student he'd met by chance on his first day in the States. Alfred had made offensive remarks about his eyebrows and his accent, and Arthur had called him an insufferable bastard. That should have been the end. Instead, Arthur had run across him again when he'd admitted to himself that he needed additional help with physics. Alfred became his tutor. Despite their initial clash of personalities, they fell into a comfortable pattern and became good friends.

Arthur, meanwhile, also fell in love. After over a year of meeting with Alfred nearly every single day, he was fairly certain that his feelings were reciprocated. It had taken him awhile to work up the nerve, but he was finally ready to confess his feelings.

But it was long past noon, and the chill of the fall air was cutting through his sopping wet coat. Alfred was never very good about being punctual, and so Arthur was confident that soon he'd come running across the plaza with his hair sticking to his forehead and a silly excuse at the ready. He clutched at the roses and glared at anyone who dared to give him a funny look.

Just when he was ready to call Alfred to give him a few choice words, his mobile chimed, informing him that he had received a new text message. He ripped the phone out of his pocket to see that it was from Alfred. When he opened the message, his heart clenched.

"Sorry, bro. My new gf wanted to stay in today. Coffee tomorrow, right?"

Arthur stared in blank disbelief at the text, reading it over and over. Gf. Girlfriend. Alfred had a girlfriend.

He slowly lowered the phone back into his pocket and stared at the roses in his hand instead. The raindrops on the petals only added to their beauty, but they would never reach their intended recipient. Arthur's face twisted into a frown, his chest felt so tight that it was painful.

When he felt his lower lip quiver, he lifted his head, taking a deep breath and rapidly blinking. The rain was picking up, and he closed his eyes and let the drops pound against his face. No tears. At last, he started to walk back through the rain, leaving the roses on a bench for someone else to find. He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept his chin held high.

But for all his defiance, he didn't know how he'd be able to face Alfred again.


	27. Spoon

**Spoon  
><strong>

**A/N: Ha ha, have something fluffy to make up for that last one. :) (And don't mind me uploading old stuff.)  
><strong>

* * *

><p>England squeezes his eyes shut tighter as the light of the morning peeks in through the curtains, rousing him from sleep. He begins to stir, attempting to stretch out his arms, but finds that he can't move his right arm. His eyes snap open, but immediately soften when he realizes the reason for his immobile arm. America is still asleep—his back against England's chest. England smiles and settles himself again, resting his head against America's.<p>

He remembers now. He's visiting America—the first time he's seen him in months. Sometimes he thinks that there's no point in maintaining a long distance relationship with him—that the periods of separation are too much to justify the short time they get to spend together. But the moment he's with America again, holding him and kissing him, all cynicism is gone and he remembers why it's worth enduring the time apart.

America is still fast asleep, so England slips his free arm back around America and hugs him a little closer. Soon America will be awake and they'll argue about what constitutes a proper breakfast. While even silly squabbles are time spent with America that he treasures, England does rather love the quiet moments when neither is shouting or throwing out half-hearted insults. Despite rumors floating around that they are only together because the make-up sex after their many fights is brilliant—and while that _is_ true, it is hardly the whole story—there remains the undeniable fact that they are quite madly in love with each other.

Sliding his eyes shut, England presses his nose to the side of America's face and breathes him in. He still smells faintly of the hamburgers he insisted on making on his barbecue the previous evening. There is also the smell of oak and pine, warm summer days and ocean breezes. Or maybe he's just so sentimental that he believes he can smell all of those things.

America stirs for a moment, and England opens his eyes, but America furrows his brow before he relaxes again. England lifts his head to stare at him fondly, and he moves his hand to brush America's hair out of his eyes. His fingers gently comb through America's hair and draw along America's cheek before resting there. America turns into his touch, seeking him out even in sleep, and England's smile grows.

He loves America—the kind of love that makes his heart flutter when he hears America's voice over the telephone, makes his chest tighten when he sees America's smile for the first time in awhile, and makes him never want to let go when he's in America's arms. If he could have his way, he really would never have to let go. But then, perhaps, he wouldn't appreciate just how good it feels to be in America's embrace if he could always be there.

England dips his head to kiss America's shoulder and then settles himself back down, closing his eyes. Later he will scold America for sleeping in and wasting time, but for now he will indulge in a selfish moment.


	28. Jacket: America

**Jacket  
><strong>

**A/N: America's side of the first "Jacket" ficlet. :)  
><strong>

* * *

><p>America mentally kicked himself as he sprinted back to the meeting room. His jacket was important to him. He couldn't just leave it behind for it to be thrown out. With any luck the janitor hadn't been through yet.<p>

He threw open the door and immediately froze. Standing behind what had been his chair was England. England wearing his jacket—pulling it around himself and burying his face in it with a look that America couldn't quite describe.

It was only for a moment, then England snapped upright and stared at him in shock. America felt his face heat up, but although he opened his mouth to speak, words failed him and he moved his mouth wordlessly for a moment. He cleared his throat.

"Oh, good. You, uh...found my jacket." His voice sounded strained—too strained. He cleared his throat again.

England nodded but didn't say anything, immediately removing the jacket to hold out for America to take. England looked away from him, and America wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved.

_Relieved_. Of course he was relieved.

"So...I'll see you later...or something," America said, his voice still strained.

England continued to look away, and America stumbled back. He managed to get through the door without any further incident, but the moment he shut the door behind him he broke into a run.

His cheeks wouldn't stop burning.


	29. Language Barrier

**Language Barrier**

* * *

><p>America was woken up early that morning by the repeated sound of his doorbell. He managed to pull on a shirt but didn't bother with pants as he headed downstairs to tell off whoever it was. It was Saturday and he wanted to sleep in.<p>

As he opened the door to tell off the offending person, his mouth fell open as he saw what was on his lawn—what must have been thousands of flowers. America only vaguely registered the delivery man's request for his signature, only managing a halfhearted attempt at signing his name as he gaped at the plants that littered his lawn.

He was given a letter in addition, but he didn't even have to open it to know who it was from.

England did that to him once every few months, though it had never been _that_ many flowers before. They weren't even pretty flowers, which could only mean that England was dumping his junk on America's lawn to spite him.

He opened the letter and read the single line of fancy penmanship, rolling his eyes as he tossed the letter to the side and trudged back to bed.

_Yours, England._

* * *

><p>England smiled to himself as he settled with his afternoon cup of tea. America must have received the coriander by then, England thought, feeling very pleased with himself. He'd been too subtle before, he knew, but now there was no way America could mistake such a grand gesture. It was only a matter of time before England received a call.<p>

He already had the red rose petals prepared for his bed.

He leaned back in his chair, watching the phone with a smile.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: In floriography, coriander means lust. So basically England is expressing his deep desire to have sex with America, heh. Though I can't imagine America knows the language of flowers and is just annoyed at all the weeds on his lawn, ha ha.**

**Red roses are, of course, romantic love. Too bad America won't get the message.**


	30. On the Beautiful Blue Danube

**On the Beautiful Blue Danube  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Don't look at your feet, America. Look up."<p>

America's gaze flickered from his feet to England's face and back as he tried to make sense of the placement of his feet in relation to England's. His hands felt like gelatin—one resting lightly on England's waist with the other clasped in England's. He shifted slightly.

"Don't the dancers look away from each other anyway?"

England sighed. "Yes, but you are hardly at a point where you can safely do that. Steps first."

America grumbled but looked up. England had a deadly serious expression on his face that would have been funny at any other time, but at the moment it felt more like England was issuing a death sentence than teaching him how to waltz.

"You'll have to hold your partner closer, America. Not so stiff and boxy. Here."

England pulled him closer and America sucked in a breath. His burning face went thankfully unnoticed by England, who was too busy adjusting the position of their hands. England finally met his gaze and he lifted his chin.

"Ready? Start turning clockwise and…one two three…one two three…"

America stumbled a bit at first, but he managed to save face and joined England in spinning around the empty ballroom. England counted the steps above the music, even as America started to fall into the natural pattern. He started to feel confident and he smiled at England—just in time for him to step heavily on England's foot.

"Fucking—!"

England tore away from him, grimacing and swearing like a sailor as he hopped around the room. America cringed and rubbed at the back of his head.

"I'm not cut out for this waltzing thing. Can't we Lindy Hop instead?"

England glared at him, but closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He opened his eyes again and shook his head. "The waltz is a refined and dignified dance. Imagine how you'll impress your boss! And his wife? The First Lady will no doubt be delighted if you can waltz with her."

"What if I don't want to dance with anyone but…"

America trailed off, but England furrowed his brow.

"What was that? Don't mumble, America."

America's cheeks burned, but he didn't look away. "Well, what if I just want to dance with you?"

England's eyes widened and his face turned a progressively darker shade of red, then he looked away and sputtered incoherent nonsense mixed with insults. He finally went quiet and turned to glare daggers at America.

"You still need to learn a respectable dance like the waltz."

His face was still bright red, but he closed the distance between them with a defiant look on his face. He positioned their hands again, but then he looked down.

America cleared his throat and smiled a little. "Don't look at your feet?"

England didn't look up. "…belt up and dance, idiot."


	31. I Will Lay Me Down

**I Will Lay Me Down  
><strong>

**A/N: Mentioned war violence in this one.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>He had initially met Alfred because their fathers were friends. Despite how Arthur resented that he was dragged along to trips to the States or was forced to entertain Alfred when Alfred and his father came to England instead, they eventually forged a friendship. They visited each other independently of their fathers and kept in touch over email the rest of the time. Arthur was not one to say such things out loud, but he did harbor a special affection for Alfred.<p>

When Alfred enlisted to fight in the Middle East, Arthur had scoffed at all of Alfred's boasting and promises to return a hero.

Still, he was worried. That worry was justified when he returned home one day to find his father hanging up the phone with a grim look on his face.

"It's Alfred."

That was all that needed to be said for Arthur to get on the next plane to the United States.

* * *

><p>Arthur took the stairs two at a time after Alfred's mother ushered him inside and urged him to go to Alfred's room. He halted at the top and caught his breath before he opened the door to Alfred's room, finding Alfred sitting on his bed and staring at his hands.<p>

Alfred looked up and Arthur took a deep breath. Alfred's face looked blank—dead. Arthur closed the door behind him and stood up straight, squaring his jaw before he opened his mouth. Before he could say anything, Alfred spoke first.

"Everyone. They've been thanking me for my service. They've been saying how brave I am and what a hero I am."

Arthur kept his gaze firmly locked with Alfred's. He folded his arms.

"Isn't that what you wanted? To be a hero? To come home and have everyone swooning over you like fools because you were off fighting—"

"Fuck you. Just shut the fuck up." Alfred looked away, but Arthur noted the way he was fidgeting.

"Well? Something went wrong, didn't it? Care to tell me about it?"

Alfred didn't respond at first, but he wrung his hands and wiggled his legs in an entirely too restless fashion. He continued to look away and his voice broke when he spoke.

"They wouldn't think I was so brave if they knew what happened. Sure, it was okay at first. Going to save the motherfucking day and be a real hero. That was until I actually killed someone and saw people all around me getting killed. I couldn't sleep. Even when I did the nightmares were worse than being awake. Couldn't ever fucking think straight."

He took a deep, gulping breath and finally looked up. Arthur's heart lurched at the look on Alfred's face—scared, lost.

"So this guy I was with, we were talking and getting a chance to relax, right? He got his head blown off. He was literally inches from me and he got his fucking head blown off. I had to be discharged because I couldn't fucking—"

Alfred fell silent except for his ragged breathing, and his gaze darted around the room before it settled on his lap once more. He bent forward and clutched at his head.

Arthur let out a deep breath as he watched Alfred tremble and shift restlessly. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't be sarcastic, because although that was his usual way of dealing with Alfred's low moods, it was not the time to be tactless. He couldn't say it would be all right, either, because he didn't know if that was really the truth. After all, what did he know about war? He'd never even _held_ a gun his entire life.

He looked up at the ceiling and took another deep breath before he stepped forward and sat on the bed next to Alfred. Alfred stiffened, but Arthur wrapped an arm around him, pulling Alfred against his shoulder. Alfred remained stiff at first, but then he let out a shaky breath and turned his face against Arthur's shoulder. Even if Alfred was being quiet about it, Arthur knew that he was crying. He wrapped his other arm around Alfred and sat still—_would_ sit still until Alfred no longer needed him there.


	32. Tactics

**Tactics  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"So," America started to say, his hand on his hip and his head tilted to the side. "If I had known you were going to go casual, I wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of dry-cleaning these clothes."<p>

England shook his head as he watered the orchids sitting in his kitchen window. "When I told you to come here, I didn't expect you to actually be prompt, much less dress appropriately."

America scoffed, and England braced himself for the inevitable rant about how heroes were always on time (except when they weren't) and always dressed the part. When it didn't come, England resumed his casual watering of the potted flowers in his kitchen. A fairy flew by the window, and England afforded her a small smile.

"I didn't even know you owned t-shirts," America said, and England sighed. America was looking for ways to rile him up, but he wouldn't succeed. It was an important day, and England wouldn't let anything else go awry.

"So are you going to tell me why you made me come here? Not to watch you water your flowers, I hope."

England lowered the watering can and stared at the orchids before him. He had decided that today was the day he would finally confess his feelings for America, and he'd had everything planned out to perfection. He would dress like a true gentleman, treat America to the finest cuisine for dinner, and then take him for a walk in the park at sunset. As the sun dipped below the horizon, England would tell America that he loved him and everything would be perfect.

However, he should have known that nothing ever went according to plan where America was concerned, and England had been completely unprepared for America's early arrival. His plans for a perfect evening were completely dashed, and he had no backup plan.

"If you're not going to talk to me, I'm going to leave. Might as well see London since I spent the time flying out here."

England snapped out of his thoughts to find America turning to leave, and his chest tightened. He was never very impulsive—he preferred carefully laid out plans—but in that moment, he could only think of one thing to do.

England reached out and grabbed America's tie, slipping his other hand around the back of America's head and pulling him into a kiss. America's gasp was muffled by England's mouth, and England kept a firm hold on America's tie as he pulled America closer to give him a thorough kiss. Even that didn't go as intended, however, and America teetered on his feet then fell forward, sending them both toppling to the floor.

England groaned under the considerable weight of America, but any irritation faded when America hoisted himself up. America's face was a bright red and he looked so bewildered that it was charming.

"Umm." America swallowed, but he didn't move. They stayed in place, staring at each other.

It was then that England realized that he still had a firm hold on America's tie, and his gaze flickered from America's face to the tie and back. He tugged on it, pulling America closer and inviting him to close the little distance still between them.

Nothing had gone according to plan that day, but nothing had ever gone according to plan when it came to their relationship in general. England let go of any thoughts of perfect days that ended in confessions at sunset or any other such frivolous dreams, especially when America took his cue and closed the distance, kissing England on his kitchen floor.


	33. Grumpeus Maximus

**Grumpeus Maximus  
><strong>

* * *

><p>America leaned forward, careful not to bump into anything lest he jar the seat next to him. From his carryon he retrieved his camera, which he flipped on and aimed at himself, holding it at arm's length as he grinned.<p>

"So I've made the greatest discovery ever just now. England'll totally kick my ass later but it'll be so worth it."

America turned the camera so it faced his traveling companion—namely England—who was fast asleep. America held the camera with one hand and pointed at England with the other.

"Here we have rare footage of the ritual of the Grumpeus Maximus as he endures the long transatlantic flight to the USA. Note the adorable teddy bear travel pillow cradling his head, custom made for just such an occasion. See how he folds his arms over the jacket he stole, er…_borrowed_ from his mate to keep warm. You can't hear it, but I have it on good authority that he's listening to Disney songs through those headphones. Such great lengths this creature goes to so he can stay comfortable!"

America leaned over, still holding the camera aloft, and peered at England.

"And yet look at how deep that scowl is!" America broke his character as he examined England's sleeping face. "Goddamn, I never realized how pissy he looks even when he's asleep. Do you miss me, England? The jacket's not enough and you want me to hold you? Awwww!"

England stirred all of a sudden, and America yelped and almost dropped his camera. He was quick to stuff it back into his bag and lean back in his chair to feign sleep. He heard England groaning next to him, but he didn't open his eyes.

"America, you awake?" England's words were slurred slightly, so America knew it wouldn't take much effort for him to fall back asleep.

Sure enough, America soon heard the rustle of fabric and the loud exhale that preceded England falling asleep. America opened his eyes to find England back in the same position he'd been in before. America reached for his camera again, grinning.

"Look! No one has ever captured this magnificent creature drooling on camera before!"


	34. The Only One You Should Be Interested In

**The Only One You Should Be Interested In  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Although Arthur was used to Alfred having the typical fascination with breasts—and sometimes having to vie for his attention because of them—he was not prepared to deal with Alfred's newly discovered fascination.<p>

Alfred loved the movie _Captain America_. That was understandable. Alfred was fascinated with heroes so it was only natural that he'd love the goodhearted and heroic Steve Rogers.

What Arthur didn't understand was that Alfred would always insist on watching through the credits for the scene at the end. More curious to Arthur was how Alfred would fall quiet and his eyes would glaze over just a little as he watched the scene.

Arthur didn't understand what was so special about that last scene.

He didn't understand, at least, until he found Alfred sitting at his computer and watching a gif from that scene. Not just any gif, though—a gif of Steve Rogers at the punching bag with a focus on his ass moving back and forth. Alfred was so transfixed on the image that he didn't notice Arthur approaching.

"Alfred, what are you doing?"

Alfred jumped, sending his coffee flying, and he slammed his laptop shut. "Nothing! I'm not doing anything! How are you? How's it going?"

Although Arthur played along with Alfred's attempt to change the subject, he took the first opportunity to sneak onto Alfred's computer and check just what it was he was looking at. Sure enough, it was an animated gif of Steve Rogers's ass.

While Arthur could tolerate the breast fascination, the thought of Alfred being interested in an ass that wasn't his was something he couldn't handle, superhero or not.

Arthur studied the gif for a moment longer before it irritated him so much that he had to slam the laptop closed. He sat scowling and trying to think of what to do about his predicament before he wrote Alfred a note and left.

* * *

><p>Alfred wasn't really sure why Arthur had asked him to come to such an obscure gym, but he also didn't want to question it and start an entirely avoidable argument, either. He'd find out the reason soon enough, he told himself. If it was for a really stupid reason then he could complain after.<p>

It was mostly empty inside the gym since most people who made use of the facility didn't want to stay late. The thought of ghosts lurking the halls when everyone left crossed his mind, but he shook it away. Arthur wouldn't ask him to come to a place that was full of ghosts—outside of Halloween, at least.

The sound of someone vigorously using a punching bag caught Alfred's attention and he peeked into the room. His jaw dropped when he did.

On the other side of the room was Arthur—or who he assumed was Arthur—dressed exactly like Steve Rogers at the end of _Captain America_ and mimicking the exact same movements. Alfred watched unable to move at first until he finally choked.

"Arthur?!"

Arthur stopped and turned around. His scowl was the deepest Alfred had ever seen it, but his flushed and sweaty face was still wildly attractive. Steve Rogers was amazing, but he had nothing on Arthur.

Arthur motioned behind him and spoke in a firm, authoritative voice.

"This fine arse is the only one you should be interested in, are we clear?"

Alfred nodded, eyes wide. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Crystal."

Arthur turned back to the punching bag again and picked up where he left off. When Alfred could manage to peel himself from the doorway he crossed the room and sat down to watch, transfixed.


	35. Long Distance Relationship

**Long Distance Relationship  
><strong>

* * *

><p>America blinked as his alarm went off, and he groaned as he pulled off his headset. He'd had enough zombie killing for one night. He reached over to switch on his desk lamp, squinting at the sudden light, and quickly checked his appearance. When he was satisfied, he exited his computer game and switched to Skype. He smiled brightly when he signed in to find a video feed of a steaming teacup and someone in the background moving back and forth. America took a deep breath and spoke in a loud voice to catch his attention.<p>

"Morning, sweetheart!"

England stopped rushing and moved over to his computer, sitting in the chair as he straightened a tie.

"Good _evening_, America." England lowered his hands away from the tie and reached for his teacup. "You know you're going to regret staying up this late again?"

America shrugged, grinning as he leaned back slightly in his chair. "Maybe. Maybe not. But this is like the only time I ever get to talk to you, so it's worth sacrificing a little sleep."

America expected England to roll his eyes and call him an idiot, but instead his expression softened. "The time difference is quite a bother, isn't it? Next time I'll stay up late for you."

"And be even more of a grouch than you usually are? I think it's better that _I_ go without sleep, thanks."

That managed to make England scoff, and he shook his head as he lowered his teacup to reach for something America couldn't see. It turned out to be a jacket—a fancy one—that England pulled on and adjusted. America scratched his chin and whistled.

"You look stuffier than usual. What's the penguin suit for?"

"I'm meeting with Her Majesty today and I want to look presentable." England smoothed out the jacket and held open his arms, giving America a curious look. "Well?"

"You look hot." America grinned when England's cheeks turned a light shade of red, but then he frowned as he thought of something. "You know, you never dress that fancy when you're with me. Am I not good enough for your fancy James Bond suits?"

England paused in attempting to smooth down his unruly hair to roll his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, America. I just don't see the point in taking the extra time to dress in something you'll just take off of me not long after."

The smirk on England's face made America laugh, though it faded into a sad smile as he and England watched each other in silence for a moment.

"Wish I could be there to do that to you now," America said, leaning on his hand.

England's expression also faded into a sad smile, but it was quick to quirk up into a smirk once again. "It won't be much longer, America. I have my flight booked and we'll have an entire month to ourselves where you can get me out of my clothes and have your way with me all you want."

"Well, if you put it _that_ way…" America laughed, but it broke into a yawn. He stretched, groaning.

"I think that means it's time for you to go to bed, America."

"I wanna keep talking to you, though." America pouted at the computer screen, but England shook his head.

"I have to leave soon anyway, so please get some sleep. I want you to be in your best shape when I come to visit, after all."

"All right, all right, I'll go to bed. Have fun with the queen or whatever."

"Sweet dreams, America."

England reached to turn off the computer, but America held up his hands.

"Hey, wait—"

England paused, giving him a curious look. America smiled, sheepish.

"Love you."

England's eyes widened and his cheeks darkened in color. He stuttered for a moment, but then he straightened up and nodded. "…I love you, too."

America's smile widened and he blew England a kiss just as England switched off his camera, blushing even deeper than before. America turned off his own computer and managed to get out of his chair, yawning as he walked over to his bed and collapsed on top of it. It wouldn't be long until England joined him there.


	36. I Will

**I Will  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Alfred wondered if it was possible to be dating someone you'd never actually met. If nothing else, it was the easiest label to put to what he was doing.<p>

He settled himself with his usual muffin and cup of coffee at his favorite table in the coffee shop. He took a bite out of the cinnamon muffin while he waited. It wasn't long until his 'boyfriend' appeared, shaking the snow out of his hair as he headed for the counter.

Alfred knew that his name was Arthur because he'd once heard one of the baristas refer to him by that name. Arthur had an almost encyclopedic list of things he wanted done with his tea, and he would have plenty of not so nice things to say if the tea wasn't just right. Alfred knew the instructions so thoroughly that he could make Arthur's tea if he wanted. He could probably even bake the scones that Arthur favored.

Maybe he really would someday.

Arthur took his usual seat by the window, which was well within Alfred's line of sight, and, as usual, they glanced at each other. When Alfred lifted his coffee cup to take a drink, Arthur mirrored his actions. When he lowered his cup, Arthur did the same. Alfred flashed Arthur a smile, but Arthur just shook his head and pulled out a newspaper.

Everything Alfred knew about Arthur was through observation—what he'd heard Arthur say to the baristas or other customers, what he'd seen Arthur reading or working on while he drank his tea, how certain things would make his large eyebrows knot together, and how both his happy and angry faces were amazing to look at.

It was not mere coincidence or routine that they came into that coffee shop at the same time every weekday. Just when Alfred had been starting to worry that his interest was one-sided, Arthur didn't show up at the coffee shop like usual one day. Rather, he showed up very late and rushed into the shop, looking panicked until Alfred met his gaze. Only then did he relax. That was when Alfred decided that they were dating, even though they still had yet to actually talk to each other.

Alfred picked at his muffin and occasionally stared over at Arthur, who he knew was doing the same to him. Alfred shifted in his seat, wondering if that should be the day that they finally talked to each other. Arthur lowered his newspaper and reached for his teacup, and this time Alfred was the one who mirrored his actions. This time Arthur smiled back at him, and Alfred decided that it was enough for him.


	37. Relaxation

**Relaxation  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"You know, we could be doing something that's actually fun right now."<p>

England sighed, but continued to pour oil in the bath before he gave America a pointed look. "You _are_ the one who insisted that we bathe together, America."

"Yeah, but I thought when you said you wanted to take a bath you meant a quick shower and then we could watch a movie together or something."

"You would just watch one of those ghost stories if we did and at any rate…" England set the bottle aside and leaned back, resting his arms along the rim of the tub. "You are always in a rush. It's no wonder you don't appreciate the merits of a bath over a shower."

"Sure, I do!" To prove his point, America leaned back as well, lifting his right leg to hang over the edge of the tub. England gave his leg a look of distaste, but then met America's gaze. America smiled at him then inhaled deeply. "What is this stuff you poured in here anyway?"

"Lavender. To relax." England gave him a look then as though he was expecting some sort of sarcastic rebuttal, but America just leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing heat and scent of the water.

"S'nice."

"Hmm."

America lifted his head to see England staring back at him with a much more relaxed look on his face. America grinned.

"You know, this tub's big enough that we could probably have sex in here."

England scoffed and threw his head back, shaking it. "You fool. It is far too hot in here for that. Water is not an acceptable lubricant anyway."

America shrugged. "You still have some of that lavender stuff, right? Then one of us would have a very relaxed ass."

England actually laughed then, loud and genuine, making America's smile widen. England lifted his head and while he was obviously going to remind America of how he was being an idiot, his expression was fond.

"You are an idiot," England said, still smiling.

"An idiot with awesome ideas."

America didn't wait for a response, instead swinging his leg back in the tub. He sat up straight, causing some of the water to splash over the side, and maneuvered his legs around so he could get closer to England. America leaned forward, brushing his lips against England's. England sighed, his mouth opening to let America slide his tongue in. America closed his eyes as England deepened the kiss, pushing America's tongue back with his own.

America finally pulled away, his eyes opening slowly as England did the same. Before he could lean back, England's hands were on his face, pulling him back into a kiss. America grinned momentarily before he kissed back with equal enthusiasm, bracing one hand against the tub and slipping the other around England's back to pull him closer. He knew he'd won.


End file.
